by Ron Schwab
“But there isn’t much they do but verify statements with a few references and ask a few questions at the county sheriff’s office. I’d say the young man is at least half-blood Indian, no doubt Sioux. If he comes from the reservation, any background report is probably a blank page.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“He’s sure watching that young lady friend of yours, too. Of course, that’s hard not to do. She’s a looker. I’ll probably get scolded by your grandma tonight for roaming eyes.”
Gramps smiled, and somehow that warmed me. I remember him smiling a lot before Dad’s death. After that, it seemed like he suddenly turned old and grumpy. “I appreciate your thoughts, Gramps. Willy’s not going to be invisible anymore.”
Chapter 11
SKYE
Skye had caught a glimpse of Ethan and Trey in the private lodge room, but she chose not to join them. Ethan carried many secrets but few were kept from her. She hoped tonight he would tell Trey the things he so badly needed to say. If he did, he would start to build the bridge between them. But Trey would need to work on the bridge from his side of the gulf that separated them, also. Ethan, at his core, was a kind and giving man. It was time for Trey to grow up.
Skye lay in bed with pillows propped up behind her, engrossed with Elmer Gantry, the recent best-selling novel by Sinclair Lewis. The book was a page-turner and a bit titillating in spots. She had read most of Lewis’s works, including Main Street and Babbitt, and she loved his characterizations and plots. But she also found him pompous and, sometimes, uninformed and economically naïve in his thinly-veiled attacks on small town and rural culture and what he evidently saw as excessive American materialism. She suspected he was not entirely foregoing the luxuries of life when he spent his royalty checks. But he told a good story and provoked thought. For pure escapism, she preferred Edna Ferber, or Zane Grey, who seemed to have every western novel he wrote adapted to the silver screen in its seemingly insatiable appetite for westerns. Of course, she and Ethan had lived those times, and the stories were greatly sanitized versions of real life in the old west.
The bedroom door opened, and Ethan entered. He lay his dinner jacket over the back of the chair and sat down, his gaze fixed on her with eyes that showed more spark than they had for a spell. She liked it that there was no liquor available here, and she longed for his teetotaling days. He was not an obnoxious or mean drunk, but Ethan, with a few drinks down his gullet, became a silent and moody man. It was past time for a talk. When they returned to Lockwood, she would bring up the subject.
“Hello, beautiful lady,” Ethan said.
“Hi, handsome man. I sense you had a nice evening.”
“I did. I may have started mending the fence. Time will tell.”
“Fence fixing’s an endless job on the ranch. We’re never done.”
“I get your point. How was your evening?”
“Fun. Grace was busy with arrangements for tomorrow, so I spent most of my time with Kate. You remember Kate? The young woman you were ogling at dinner?”
“Ogling? I don’t ogle anyone but you, my love.”
“Liar. That’s okay, as long you don’t sleep with anyone but me. If you do, you’re a dead man.”
“Good Lord, Skye, I’m seventy-eight years old.”
“Remind your friend.” Should she tell him what she had learned and risk spoiling his good mood? She considered the question only a few seconds. They didn’t keep information like this from each other.
Skye said, “I learned something tonight.”
“From Sinclair Lewis? Not from that socialist bastard.”
“Don’t get worked up. No. From Kate Connolly.”
“And what did you learn from Miss Connolly?”
“Brace yourself. Her mother served with the Army Nurse Corps in France during the war.” She could see Ethan’s jaw muscles tense and tighten.
“Connolly. I think I know where you’re headed with this. I suppose her first name was Coleen?”
“Yes. And she died August 5, 1918.”
Ethan shook his head in disbelief. “This has to be the most bizarre coincidence I’ve ever encountered. Did you say anything to her?”
“Only the date of Deuce’s death. I told her the date, and then she responded with the date of her mother’s death. She was stunned by what she apparently saw as a coincidence.”
“Do you think we should tell her anything?”
“No. I don’t see any point. I can’t imagine what I would say.”
“I agree. Leave it alone.”
“The coyotes started howling immediately after she gave me the date.”
Ethan gave her a look of mild exasperation. “We’ve heard a lot of coyotes over the years, dear.”
“I think these were telling us something. I just haven’t figured out what.”
“I need to get to bed. Do you and Sinclair have room for me?”
“Definitely. And I’m going to shuck my nightgown. I want you to hold me.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s up to you and your friend.”
Ethan shed his clothes and stretched out naked beside her on the bed. She snuggled up to him, and he wrapped his arms gently about her shoulders, as she rested her head upon his chest. She never tired of lying with this good man she had loved so passionately for so many years. They would never share enough nights together.
Ethan said, “My friend is willing.”
Chapter 12
TREY
Mrs. Coolidge had asked me not to stray too far from Kate Connolly during the birthday and Independence Day activities. I gathered that meant I was not an official host for the young lady, but I was to be available upon command. Sort of a loyal dog, if you will.
Hundreds of South Dakotans were swarming on the State Game Lodge grounds by mid-morning, and the main road and driveway were clogged with cars and horse-drawn buggies and wagons. The torrid sun would have everybody stinking with sweat before the day was out, and I would be among the worst, wearing a jacket to cover my .45 pistol. I thought I looked rather sheik, though, with my head topped with a flat-brimmed straw hat. Then I saw Kate step out of the house, and I felt like a hobo. She wore a navy-blue skirt, thankfully showing as much of the exquisite gams as western decency would allow. Her red blouse was high-necked and unrevealing. And patriot that she was, she had a little white, beret-type hat cocked at an angle atop her head.
She caught a glimpse of me, holding a prime spot under a ponderosa not far from the veranda, and, to my surprise, she hurried down the steps and walked straight toward me. As she came near, she showed traces of a smile. This shored me up some and gave me a shot of optimism for a civil conversation.
“Good morning, Kate,” I said. “You look lovely this morning.” Was that pouring the sugar on a bit thickly? I had no idea. My female relationships heretofore had pretty much been confined to floozies, and I felt awkward in polite society.
“Flattery will get you nowhere. But it’s nice of you to say so. You clean up quite nicely yourself. You’ll roast today in the coat, however.”
“You do understand why I’m wearing a jacket?”
“So you can pretend you’re hiding the gun?”
“Perhaps not everyone is as observant as you.”
“There were hundreds of sidearms and a scattering of rifles checked in by your Secret Service at the gate before I came downstairs. I was watching from my bedroom window. By my count, almost every agent is at the gate. No more than one Service agent and somebody who claims to be a Bureau of Investigation agent here on the grounds. That’s terribly thin protection, if you ask me.”
She was right, of course. “I don’t think they anticipated this many people.”
“Anybody could slip a gun in here. There is something I’ve been thinking about. If somebody wanted to kill the president, this would be the place to do it. All these people and the vehicles and horses blocking the roadways. Position a marksman in a high spot around here, and h
e could do his job and make it to a getaway car before a search could even be organized.”
She was making me uneasy, and I found my eyes roaming the outbuildings and hillsides for likely sniper posts. “So, what are you suggesting?”
“I’m wondering if the so-called assassins were actually planning to kidnap the president?”
I thought about her remark. I was not certain their intent mattered since they did not carry it out. But, in casting for suspects, the character and backgrounds of abductors might be different than those of assassins. A presidential killer, for instance, would likely have a political grudge. An abductor’s motive would more likely be money. “I think what you suggest is certainly a possibility. I should be screening the grounds before the president comes out. Would you care to join me for a stroll?”
She took my arm, and we strolled leisurely about the grounds, sometimes having to squeeze between the clusters of people. A cowboy band added to the festive atmosphere with its guitars and fiddles and an accordion or two. Traditional songs filled the air, but the band included several new songs in its repertoire, including a current hit by a new hillbilly star, Jimmie Rodgers, called Blue Yodel or T for Texas and a tune recently released by the Carter Family titled Wabash Cannonball, which didn’t appear to have much of a future.
There were countless unofficial food and drink vendors lining the edges of the rolling lawns, much like the county fairs I attended with Gramps and Gram as a child. I bought us lemonades and promised lunch later, if she would join me. To my surprise, she quickly agreed. Strangely, I was no longer thinking of her as a potential conquest—well, not too much anyway. I was just enjoying her company, a new and rather scary experience for me.
“Let’s go down by Squaw Creek,” Kate suggested, taking the lead down a sloping path that led to the clear, fast-flowing mountain stream that descended from the hills and raced over a rocky bed past the lodge grounds.
“The president’s been fishing here almost every morning—with great success, I might add.” I decided not to mention staff rumors that Starling and South Dakota Governor William Bulow had colluded to have the stream stocked with ancient trout from a state fish hatchery and wire netting stretched across the creek downstream to hinder their escape. Also, there had been a few local complaints that the state legislature was on the verge of passing a bill to rename the stream Grace Coolidge Creek.
When we reached the stream, Kate claimed a large boulder for her perch and sat down and positioned herself with her legs discreetly crossed, leaving me standing awkwardly beside her. A hint of perfumed fragrance wafted upward, and, for fear of my nose starting to twitch like a bird dog picking up a scent, I staked out my own smaller flat-headed stone some six feet distant that forced me to look up at her. I felt like an accused looking up at a judge in a courtroom, but the nice-gam view compensated some.
“I had breakfast with your grandparents this morning,” she said. “They are such an interesting couple, so obviously crazy about each other after all these years. Your grandfather seemed especially spry today. More talkative. He still cuts quite a figure, and your grandmother is so poised and beautiful.”
The old fart. He was more politician than Coolidge. Gramps could turn on the charm when he wanted. But he could also turn it off in an instant. “I had intended to meet up with them, but I got caught up in something.”
“You overslept is my guess,” she said, displaying a mischievous smile and a twinkle in those gorgeous greenish-brown eyes.
I shrugged. “I hadn’t committed.”
“But you would have pleased them if you had been there.”
I think I was being scolded. And it worked. She had pressed the tip of a spear in my conscience. Guilt had been an infrequent visitor in recent years, but the past day it had been making itself decidedly unwelcome. “You’re right. I should have joined them.”
“I had a wonderful conversation with your grandmother last night.”
I sensed this was leading to something, but I was not too concerned. Gram Skye had always been my defender, although she probably had not helped my spoiled state. “That’s nice. I’m glad you enjoyed some time with her.”
“She told me the date of your father’s death. August 5, 1918.”
“Yes, that sounds right.” Actually, the date was engraved in my mind.
“That’s the same date my mother died.”
She sent my head spinning with that remark. This was beyond weird. What were the odds? “That is a really strange coincidence.”
“Yes, it kept me awake last night thinking about it. Skye also told me about Lame Buffalo’s vision on the night of the coyote.”
“I’ve heard that story until I could repeat it word for word. Gram told me the story once, but the Brule around Lockwood told me the tale until I was sick of it.”
“I think it’s romantic and kind of spooky at the same time.”
“I’m certain old Lame Buffalo believed in his vision, but we all have strange dreams sometimes. Then some things in a dream happen, and we can choose to call it either prophecy or coincidence. I lean toward coincidence.”
“You don’t believe in the vision?”
“No. I don’t believe in things that can’t be proven with hard facts.”
“That’s why you’re a numbers cruncher?”
“I’m not an accountant. I’m a BI agent, who has some ability to work with numbers.”
“Skye said you were a mathematical prodigy as a child, that they had to find books for you to read because you were advanced beyond the abilities of your teachers. I can’t imagine. I’ve always struggled with numbers. But she said you see your ability as a curse, because you don’t even enjoy working with numbers. You tested out of every mathematics class in college and obtained a degree in business because you promised your mother you would graduate.”
“Gram talks too much.”
“She worries about you. She’s afraid you find no fun in life.”
“I find fun.” But do I truly?
“What is 1,166,676 divided by fourteen?”
“Eighty-three thousand three hundred thirty-four.” Damn, I never responded to these little games.
“Impressive, I guess. But, of course, I can’t do that in my head, so I really don’t know if you’re right.”
“I’m right. And please, don’t do that again,” I snapped.
“I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“Not angry. Annoyed.”
“Well, I wasn’t trying to annoy you. I was enjoying your company until now.”
I could see the concern on her face, but I sensed that I had a situation that needed defusing. Perhaps, I was starting to pick up some emotional awareness. I had been told by my mother I needed that. What would Gramps say here? “I’m sorry. I’ve been having a wonderful time. I’m just a bit too sensitive about my numbers curse. I’ll do better. Second chance?” Her eyes studied my face, and I thought I saw a tad of empathy there.
“Second chance.”
“Will you be offended if I talk business?”
“BI business?”
“Yes.”
“I’m listening.”
“I asked you to think about anything you might not have mentioned to the Secret Service about the day you helped the president. Have you thought about this?”
“I have. I thought I heard one of the name’s called out—the Sioux’s. And I don’t remember mentioning the name. I thought the president would have said something, but then it occurred to me he was in a corner of the cave and probably didn’t hear the voice.”
“What was his name?”
“George.”
“This could be important.”
“There could be a hundred Lakota named George on the reservation.”
“But, as compared to Indian No-Name, this greatly narrows possibilities.”
“Of course, he might not be Lakota. He might not be from the Pine Ridge Reservation or Rapid City. He might be in Kansas City by now.”
“You were already here when those men were stalking President Coolidge. You’re not in the Black Hills to chase assassins.”
My mission was not top secret. Gabe had probably already shown his credentials a dozen times. “Another agent and I are investigating the rape and murder of two Lakota girls. There is also the possibility there are other killings or abductions. A number of young women appear to have turned up missing.”
Her brow furrowed. “I’ve heard about the murders. The Shamrock borders the reservation, and I have several good friends about my age who live not far from the ranch. Sage Rainmaker teaches at one of the reservation schools. She knows everybody in the western part of the Pine Ridge. She’s very bright. She could go anyplace, but she’s chosen to stay here and help her people.”
“Do you think she would talk freely with me?”
“If I went with you. She’s my best friend. I haven’t seen her so much, since I went away to college. She attended the Haskell Institute in Lawrence, Kansas for a year after she finished high school, got teaching certification and came back home. But I’ve been planning on riding over to see her anyway.”
“Ride? Like on a horse?”
“It would be much shorter from my place, and we could find her without attracting so much attention. You can ride, can’t you?”
I gave her an exasperated look. “When I wasn’t living on army posts, I lived on Gram and Gramps’s Lazy R. I’m rusty, but I can ride. I suppose I could rent a horse from the lodge for a day, but we’d have to figure out how to meet up.”
“Belle Fourche rodeo’s tomorrow. Day after, you drive over to the Shamrock. I’ll ride my War Paint and pick you a gentle mount from the remuda. I’ll show you some of God’s country on the way to the reservation, which belongs to the devil. And don’t worry about Dad. He’ll be on a cow-buying trip down at Chadron, Nebraska for three days starting tomorrow.”
I passed on her gentle mount remark, and I wasn’t looking for trouble with Owen Connolly. “I don’t want to cause any conflict between you and your father.”